


make the most of freedom

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 09:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11228025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: They say he's a monster in the shape of a man.





	make the most of freedom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphireBlueJiyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireBlueJiyuu/gifts).



> This is a very belated birthday gift for the lovely Jan. I hope you like it, hon. <3
> 
> Title from "everybody wants to rule the world."

Her uncle smiles thinly as she steps out, maids carefully arranging the train behind her so that it will trail elegantly. “Well,” he says, “I don’t imagine any man can be disappointed with you.” His lips twist in that cruel way that typically follows a particularly biting comment. Perhaps he’s thinking of what tonight will bring. Perhaps he’s thinking that it isn’t a man he’s handing her over to.

She doesn’t care. For this one brief moment, she is glad of what’s to come so long as it means she will be free of him.

She rests her hand in his oily palm, allowing him to lead her through the doors. She knows a brief moment of intense sorrow. It should be her father beside her, not Alistair.

But the familiar pain is short-lived, replaced by a throat-clawing terror that has her heart quivering like a rabbit in its hutch at the sight of the man waiting beside the septon.

(They say he killed his own father and mother.)

She’s imagined this day a thousand times over the course of her life. She imagined handsome men and ugly men, young and old, strong and weak. She only knew for certain that Alistair would sell her to whoever most benefited him, and so often her imaginings tended towards men like him, men with power and clout and not an ounce of mercy or kindness in their souls.

She never thought Alistair so despicable that she should have imagined a monster.

She misjudges the step onto the low dais and a stranger’s hand steadies her. She looks up to see torchlight reflected in dark, fathomless eyes.

(They say he burned his brother alive.)

He takes the hand which Alistair has released so as to guide her into place beside him. Septon Franklin, who Jemma has known all her life and who let her cry upon his shoulder when her father died, smiles down at her, his eyes crinkling. Somehow, this rallies her strength. Her heart still wishes to run—especially when the great wolf rises up to sniff her after her bridegroom places his cloak around her shoulders—but she no longer feels certain she will scream if she so much as opens her mouth.

She makes it through the vows without embarrassing herself or her house and is almost relieved. She has survived this public torture.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” her husband says. She had forgotten, been so caught up in living moment to moment she forgot to anticipate the last step in this dance.

It is not a chaste kiss, not the timid exchanges she has made with Leo or Antoine in the corners of the hedge maze. Jemma’s husband kisses her in ways a lord ought not to kiss a lady, like a conqueror taking dominion of the land, like a king demanding his due. He kisses her until she is sure the only real thing in the world is his body against hers, until her lungs burn and she knows he means to choke her on his affections.

(They say he eats the flesh of his enemies and throws their bones to his direwolf.)

He releases her, one strong arm holding her steady while around them the bawdy shouts and yells of his and her uncle’s men echo throughout the hall. Unable to do anything else, she clings to him while the shaking in her heart extends to every part of her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Alistair offered to bed them in the castle tonight, but her husband refused the offer, preferring to sleep with his army outside the walls. He carried her through the sea of tents himself, sparing her dress from the dirt and mud and various other fluids no doubt littering the ground after the army’s been encamped here for the better part of a week.

The tent itself is a surprise. She expected a tiny lean-to, barely big enough for the both of them, but this tent is larger than her tower room. Were it not for the dirt floor and the sound of revelry breaking through the cloth walls, she could imagine herself truly indoors.

Once he’s set her on her feet, her husband appears content to leave her to her own devices. It’s for the best, as it allows her time to catch her breath. Being held by him for so long, being so close to him … she was not ready for that.

Feeling strangely warm for such a cool evening, she unwraps the heavy cloak from her shoulders and lays it across a nearby chair. The direwolf follows her, sniffing at her heels.

“Will he be staying?” she asks, finally finding her voice again. It’s barely been two hours since the kiss, she’s almost proud.

Her husband sets aside his gloves and smiles lovingly at the creature. “He’ll protect us. You.”

She wonders if he means it to be a reassurance, that his beast will protect her from the men outside, or a warning, that she might need protection from what’s already in here.

“Okeo,” he calls sharply. The wolf hastens to his side and he catches its muzzle. The motion freezes her blood in her veins. The wolf is large enough it could kill him with a single swipe of its paw, yet it sits as docile as a pup while he speaks to it. He points to her several times and, from she knows not where, produces a ribbon she recognizes as being from her hair.

She touches the complicated knot Ann made of it, feeling about for a loose patch, but can find none. However did he get it free? And, for that matter, when?

“He won’t hurt you,” he says finally, releasing the wolf.

“He’s a wild animal,” she says as it approaches her once more. “There’s a reason their kind were pushed back beyond the wall.”

He smiles as he returns to the work of undressing. She wonders if she ought to do the same or to wait for his instruction.

“I’ve raised him most of his life, he’s as loyal to me as he can be.”

“And what was he doing in his earlier days? Devouring villagers?”

He chuckles, sitting to remove his boots. “He was raised by my father. He nursed him from his own hand. When he came to me, he was barely big enough to devour a bird.”

“Your father?” she asks, surprised by the gentleness in his tone. She would have thought, given the stories, he would feel more callously towards him.

Her husband’s smile fades. He rises and suddenly the tent which seemed so large earlier feels very small. He crosses the distance between them so swiftly it might as well have been a single step. She can’t help a gasp when he reaches for her hair.

“You need not fear me.”

She could laugh. He and his army have been sweeping across the land like a wildfire, laying waste to any who refuse to swear allegiance to him. He is so dangerous, in fact, that Alistair—who has spent years dangling her out like a lure, always refusing to marry her off so that he might use her again later—finally saw fit to let her go. And now she is his. He can do with her what he pleases.

The wolf steps behind her, its thick hide scraping against the fine silk of her dress. Its warmth gives her strength the same way the septon’s smile did earlier.

“With all respect,” she says slowly so as to be sure her voice doesn’t waver, “that isn’t entirely true.”

He scowls and she half-expects a blow for her loose tongue, but it never comes. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

The question startles her, leaving her grateful for the wolf’s solid bulk at her back. “Y-you are my husband.”

His dark expression eases. “Three years ago, the collapse of Fury Keep.”

That she remembers. The Keep was built into a cliff side, overlooking the sea. The only entrances from land were underground tunnels, all heavily guarded. All of which caved in when the Keep fell into the sea. Jemma was one of many who provided aid to those recovered from the ruins, setting bones and staunching wounds and, more often than not, covering the faces of those already passed.

He removes his light undershirt and angles his hip so that she can better see his right side.

“Oh.” It’s all she can think to say. She doesn’t remember him, but she remembers this wound. She makes him turn so that she can see his back and the matching scar. He wasn’t just caught in the cave-in, he was run through and left for dead.

He takes her hand when she lifts it to examine his healed flesh, pulling her closer. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, unable to find words to say anything else. She isn’t sure she truly did save him. He shouldn’t have survived long enough to reach her, let alone to walk and fight and lead an army. The maester working alongside her said it was a gift from the gods; knowing his identity now, she thinks it more likely it was his own stubbornness held him to the world. “Is that why- I mean, is this-” She bites her tongue, cursing it for its inability to work when most important. There seems no simple way to ask if his gratitude is why they are both here now.

“Yes,” he says. One of his hands moves into her hair, gently pulling apart the carefully coiled braids. Never before has the feel of her own hair upon her skin felt so strange—or so wonderful. “And no. I didn’t seek you out, but when the opportunity to repay my debt presented itself, I saw no reason not to take it.”

He is very close and seems to be eating up all the air between them. She feels dizzy, but discovers she has no desire to move away and find her center again.

“Repay your debt,” she echoes carefully, “by marrying me.”

His fingers have moved lower, abandoning her hair in favor of undoing her stays. She presses closer to him so as to ease his work.

He releases his grip on her hand to tip her chin up. His thumb sweeps over her cheek and then over her brow, stopping over the faint scar at the edge of her eye.

He smirks. “By marrying you.” So he knows what sort of man Alistair is—not that Alistair ever makes any effort to hide it. But there are other ways to free her from him. He might have married her to one of his generals or their sons, or simply have overrun Alistair’s lands as he has so many others. There was no need to bind himself to her as he has done. Not unless there is something else he gains by doing so.

His eyes are dark on her face when her bodice loosens and a full breath of air sweeps into her lungs. Her dress falls easily from her shoulders with very little prodding.

He kisses her again. His rough hands move over her bare skin, sending a delicious fire scorching over her flesh. But she’s more ready for him this time and pulls him closer, meeting him halfway. His grin is sharp against her mouth and he lifts her, hoisting her onto his hips like a babe so that they need not struggle so to hold onto one another.

There is a bed. Not a simple bedroll or a pile of furs, but a true bed likely stolen from some finely appointed bedchamber which now stands in ruins. She is dimly aware they are heading in its direction, but cannot focus on that fact while his lips are moving down her neck.

She has kissed men and boys, but never like this, never with their hands on her and their lips straying places she never dreamed lips should go. He finds a spot along her shoulder which seems to mark a line directly to her core. “My lord,” she gasps, her legs tightening around his waist. There is a thought in her head that she should feel ashamed of that, for surely this is how a harlot would behave, but can it be wrong to act as a whore to one’s own husband? Every inch of her flesh is his and his hers in return. There is nothing of her he does not own.

He stops, one hand holding her shoulders so that she doesn’t fall when he pulls back to see her. “Grant,” he says.

She knew his name of course—she doubts there is anyone alive in the Seven Kingdoms who does not—but to call him by it feels as intimate as … as his hand cupping her bare buttocks.

“Grant,” she says, the word emerging with a grin. She says it several more times over the course of the night and discovers, much to both of their pleasures, that she is quite incapable of saying it without smiling.

 


End file.
